While the goat put its head into the trough, she stepped over and grabbed a coat—military green and smelling of musk and mutton—from a nearby hook. Below the jacket hung a pair of giant shears. Unlike regular scissors, they looked like two large triangular knives attached by a vinyl-coated squeeze grip. Her next thought surprised her—that she should cut a tuft of wool from one of the sheep, rinse it, and use it for a not-so-sanitary pad.
She’d had worse ideas.
The shears were spring-loaded, and the handles squeezed together like those old-timey hand strengtheners. When they heard the blades scrape together, the sheep bleated loudly and backed away.
But then she had another idea.
The grocery shopper’s video of Cara, capturing her leaving the store like a bandanna’d Bigfoot, would be all over the internet. Feeling one of her hair extensions—which now had the consistency of Barbie doll hair that had been washed with dish soap—she grabbed a hunk and snipped it off.
Cara had made it halfway around her head before she realized the animals had suddenly gone completely quiet.
Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun racking.
She whirled around. Holding the shotgun was a grizzled, muscular man in a yellow tank top with a hissing cobra on the front. He had a shock of wavy gray hair, and a full, long beard to match. The glint in his blue-gray eyes seemed to say he wasn’t afraid to use the weapon.
“I’m not dangerous!” she blurted.
He eyeballed her for a moment.
“Are you sure?” he said. “Because you’re holding my sheep shears, and you look like a Victorian mental patient.”
SEVENTEEN
JORDAN
Joining the search for @Carasloveisgold.#HowHardCanItBe #InstagrammerInAHaystack #TrackingIsTheTits
—@MyNameIsBob_JAMES_Bob
Jordan kept his eyes on the ground as he worked his way through the trees. His progress was slow, but from what he could see, Campbell was slowing down, too. Her scramble up the hill had been wild, with her slips and trips clearly marked on the ground. But she would have quickly grown winded—the climb left him breathing hard, too. As the slope became more gentle, she left fewer obvious signs and her trail became more difficult to follow.
Most of his tracking experience had been earned on hunting trips with his dad as they followed the blood sign left by dying deer or elk. But he had learned a lot from observing S&R trackers, too, for whom the smallest disturbances on the forest floor told a larger story. The most important lesson? Tracking was never as fast as running. Patience was the key.
As he covered the mile or so since leaving the market, about thirty minutes of hiking, he’d been on the radio the whole time, directing the search operation. His deputies had arrived to interview potential witnesses while the team back at the MCP pored over maps to triangulate all the routes Campbell might take based on Jordan’s updates. He had ordered vehicles to patrol the surrounding roads and managed to finally call a helicopter off fire duty to search from above. And the dogs were coming up behind. He could already hear them barking.
Fortunately, Marshal Wen wasn’t on Jordan’s radio frequency. He’d gotten two missed calls and several texts from an unknown number—SHERIFF CALL ME NOW THIS IS WEN—before his cell coverage evaporated again.
He was typically not afraid to ask for or accept help, even from outside agencies. But what could these Angelenos do for him in the trees? He was so agonizingly close. And with the story going national, spreading even faster than the wildfires, he desperately wanted the win.
Beto called him on the radio. “Sheriff? Wen wants me to put her through.”
“Tell her you can’t raise me,” he answered.
“Um... pretty sure she just heard that. She’s standing right here.”
Jordan swore, then thumbed the mic. “Put her on.”
“Were youtryingto lose us?” demanded Wen.
“I’m trying to catch Campbell. I found a sign and followed it.”
“Leaving four reinforcements behind.”
“No offense, but you would have slowed me down. I’m on her trail and she’s unarmed. I don’t need backup.”
“You had her one-on-one last night, and we’re all still out here.”
Jordan dropped the transceiver and kneeled. Had the slim green branch been recently broken? It was hard to tell. But there—in the fine, dry dust, about the size of a playing card, was her tread pattern. She had spotted an easier route and was taking it. Jordan knew it would lead her into a gentle bowl between two ridges. Broader than a ravine, not quite a canyon.
